Please try and work as many of these favorite words as possible into a paragraph. Let us HOPE that hilarity will ensue.
Update: Hilarity has most definitely ensued.
Do not miss the brilliance in the comments. They are precious!
Some excerpts:
To this day, dad swears (usually with a glass of scotch in hand, or some other elixir) that his fondest memory is the conflagration which resulted from the schools not-so-solid decision to combine a fireworks display with their annual scrimshaw festival.
Another one:
It is still difficult at times for me to leave my bungalow, but through modern telephony (with a focus on judicious use of the octothorpe) my existence can be justified. Much like a schwa, I am unstressed.
Excuse me, but I just find that scary brilliant.
More:
“Level with me”, Karen requested the next day “Was there any nookie between you too?” It being technically her bailiwick, I was obliged to admit it. But I wasn’t the murderer. My finding the body was mere serendipity!
“I know you didn’t.”, Karen informed me. “Her real name was Mary; she was from Oklahama. She’s essentially one of Octothorpe’s sluttish molls.”
More:
She was into Hedonism and god bless her for that. It kept me warm on the coldest Vladivostok nights. We had a bungalow on the outskirts of the city. It was an abysmal place, one end sinking like that leaning tower. She taught math at the Progressive Institute; chisenbop for physics majors, while I stayed home laboring through my doctoral thesis on the phenomena of flux creep to speed scotch distillation. Barbarism, sure, but you try getting through the Vladivostok winter after the single malt elixir has run out.
Shaking with laughter.
Alexander listened to the crepuscular goings-on of the monastery while he mixed the grain. The prayers, in the distance, were a symmetrical nonsense, not distinct enough to make out. “Ah, it is done, an elixir fit for the Kings horse.”
Oh. My. God.
The patient was a sluttish louche, overly fond of hedonism. He had sullied his reputation beyond repair, and gradually made his descent into madness. Nookie had ruined him. When he discussed the creature, he would start to gesticulate wildly, and the electroencephalograph readings showed dangerous excitations of the humours. He would also repeat the phrase: “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtan” which I mistakenly believed was nonsense.
And:
I’d spent the night in my bungalow attempting to coax some nookie out of a sluttish girl I’d met at the bar at Siro’s who’d gone all flibbertigibbet when she noticed the scrimshaw around my neck sporting a horse head and deduced I was in racing.
You people are BEAUTIFUL.
My mother was from Oklahoma. My father was born in Moscow but raised in Vladivostok, where, as he tells it, children were often subjected to barbarism. This sometimes came in the form of the sluttish neighbor who had sullied the reputation of his older brother; other times it came from the louche who taught at the towns school. If one could call it a school their idea of advance learning was chisenbop, and nonsense was often the order of the day. To this day, dad swears (usually with a glass of scotch in hand, or some other elixir) that his fondest memory is the conflagration which resulted from the schools not-so-solid decision to combine a fireworks display with their annual scrimshaw festival.
It strikes me now that this is a rather abysmal introduction to what was intended to be a level-headed, if not absolutely symmetrical, story of how my life changed from one of mash, hootch and hedonism (although I still enjoy a little nookie from time-to-time) to one where evensong is now my bailiwick, where lollygagging is a thing of the past, and where those who once might have called me a flibbertigibbet or even compared me to a cadaver now gesticulate wildly when praising my ability to hold flux creep at bay, and my ability to stay crepuscular. It is still difficult at times for me to leave my bungalow, but through modern telephony (with a focus on judicious use of the octothorpe) my existence can be justified. Much like a schwa, I am unstressed.
The cadaver was portentous, my one solid clue in the vast conflagration which was Vladivostok.
When I discerned the identity of the dead, I wasn’t quite sure whether to gesticulate or guzzle
scotch. I eventually settled for both. “My Tatyana! The barbarism! The abyssmal barbarism!”
“Level with me”, Karen requested the next day “Was there any nookie between you too?” It being
technically her bailiwick, I was obliged to admit it. But I wasn’t the murderer. My finding the
body was mere serendipity!
“I know you didn’t.”, Karen informed me. “Her real name was Mary; she was from Oklahama. She’s
essentially one of Octothorpe’s sluttish molls.”
Octothorpe. The scourge of the Russian Far East.
“But it can’t be. She knew about the scrimshaw!”
“EVERYONE knew about the scrimshaw, ya mook! It was all nonsense; she was playing you.”
The memory of our bungalow hedonism now sullied, I went over all that Tatyana, or Mary, had
said. The facts fell into a new order, like the fingers of chisenbop shifting from 4 to 5. It
was all so louche. Karen watched my torment, and then offered me more hootch.
“We need to know”, Karen said when my lollygagging had gone on long enough. “What did she
reveal about herself? We need to know what sort of attack they are planning. Is telephony
involved? Anything might help.”
“She never said anything much. Just a blonde flibbertigibbet, you know? But… she talked in
her sleep.”
Karen raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“But it didn’t make much sense to me.”
“What did she say?”
“Flux creep”.
“What?”
“Flux creep. And something about an elixir…”
Suddenly, the door splintered with a bang, pieces of it impacting Karen’s head in a strangely
symmetrical way.
Octothorpe himself strode in, trailed by Evensong, the Femme Fatal of the Orient. I was
dumbstruck for a moment, then I found my voice. Even then, I could only utter strange schwa
sounds.
“You shall never obtain the elixer. Mash him, men!”
My arms were pinned behind me…
I shall never post again. Ash is a genius.
Alexander created a mash while his fellow monks attended evensong. Feeding the livestock was Alexanders bailiwick. He had begun his husbandry career carting muck from the stalls and graduated to actually mucking the stalls. Next, he was allowed to tend the animals and his work often lasted well into the evening. Alexander listened to the crepuscular goings-on of the monastery while he mixed the grain. The prayers, in the distance, were a symmetrical nonsense, not distinct enough to make out. “Ah, it is done, an elixir fit for the Kings horse.”
(If you haven’t read the short story “Call of Cthulhu”, the following will be a bit of a spoiler. Fair warning.)
“The Chisenbop of Cthulu: A Tale of Madness and Horror”
I should never have read the writings of my uncle, particularly since archaeology was never my bailiwick. My uncle was Professor Mendelssohn, of the University of Vladivostok, noted philanthropist and scholar, who not too long ago shocked his associates by going mad and committing suicide. What possessed me to examine what seemed to be the feverish writings of a madman, I do not know. But I found a description of a bizarre cult that worshipped a large creature with a head resembling that of an octopus and the body of a wombat. (Though it was only later that I would realize that the true magnitude of its proportions were far from those of a mere wombat).
But I am getting ahead of myself. The reason I delved into my mad uncle’s writings was mere circumstance. I had happened upon the description of “Cthulhu”. My interest was piqued because of my own work in the field of psychiatry. One of my patients (quite insane) related to me vivid dreams of a creature matching that very same description. I thought it mere fantasy. The patient was a sluttish louche, overly fond of hedonism. He had sullied his reputation beyond repair, and gradually made his descent into madness. Nookie had ruined him. When he discussed the creature, he would start to gesticulate wildly, and the electroencephalograph readings showed dangerous excitations of the humours. He would also repeat the phrase: “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtan” which I mistakenly believed was nonsense.
My curiousity was aroused by my uncle’s writings. He had been studying a bizarre tribal cult, a tribe that held its worship deep in the dark forests of Oklahoma. He had witnessed the barbarism of their rituals. They sang an evensong around a cadaver while drinking a peculiar mash scotch elixir. The crepescular environment was not enough to obscure my uncle from the cult leader’s gaze, however. “There is a homunculus among us!” he exclaimed. (My uncle was rather diminutive.) If the leader had not been such a nincompoop, the Professor might not have escaped. He did manage to jot down their chant, the same as my mad patient’s: “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtan”, translated as “In his bungalow at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu lies lollygagging”. What this meant I did not know. I wish I had never found out.
There was also the case of the ancient scrimshaw found in Kashmir, with a depiction of the hideous creature “Cthulhu”. My uncle had an epiphany, this was no local cult, it was a worldwide phenomenon. The scrimshaw also bore indecipherable markings (though some resembled the common symbols of an octathorpe and a schwa). Most interesting, though was a nautical map also engraved on the surface. It was well known that the Professor had embarked on an expedition just before he went mad. I decided to follow in his footsteps, a decision I will rue to my deathbed.
Via telephony I contracted a sloop, and set sail. When I arrived at the proper coordinates, I discovered a vast structure jutting above the water. It appeared to be made of delphinium, and had a flux creep that affected my sextant. It was otherworldly, none of the surfaces were symmetrical, or level. I discovered a huge set of doors, the size of large castle doors, except on a horizontal plane. I noticed the stone on which I was standing was now descending. It was a switch, and the door was opening! I peered down into the abysmal vacuity and saw a strange luminescence. The gargantuan head of the creature Cthulhu. There began a great conflagration. I solid ran back to the sloop! I looked back, and to my horror saw that the flibbertigibbet was nearly upon me! Only the fates in the form of a strong wind saved me that day. I watched as the monstrosity counted with its fingers as it sank into the murky depths. And I fear that it will rise again…
Yikes! That was a bit more than a paragraph!
I absolutely am totally in love with each and every one of you.
Morning. Mist rising from the stately elms behind the Oklahoma training track in Saratoga Springs, New York. I had just poured a level shot of scotch into a paper coffee cup just to take the August chill off of my cadaverous bones when the great horse Vladivostok came huffing by, his mighty hooves chuffing in the loamy dirt. (Parenthetical digression #1: Lollygagging at Oklahoma on a solid August morning with a glass of hootch puts the hed in hedonism). I’d spent the night in my bungalow attempting to coax some nookie out of a sluttish girl I’d met at the bar at Siro’s who’d gone all flibbertigibbet when she noticed the scrimshaw around my neck sporting a horse head and deduced I was in racing. She had begun to gesticulate wildly shrieking about the barbarism in racing, the whips and all. But I’d managed to get her abyssmal behavior under control and determined that she was dead game for a night with me, only later my louche moves led her to believe that her reputation would be sullied so she left, probably headed for The Lodge, where she hoped to meet up with a Vanderbilt or a Whitney. Talk about your louche people into hedonism, hootch and nookie. Sheesh. Anyway, that explains the scotch in the morning and the lollygagging at Oklahoma. But nothing could explain the speed of Vladivostok. I’d have to bet him in the afternoon. He was a solid play.
These are so entertaining, I can’t even STAND IT
Damn, I forgot the word bailiwick. Anyway, in the spirit of full disclosure,I feel constrained to report that in the afternoon the great Vladivostok was beaten a nose by Flux Creep. Schwa was a length back in third. Flux Creep is just one of those horses who, if you bet him, he loses, if you don’t he wins.
Challenge
Sheila has issued a challenge to write a paragraph containing the following words: level, scotch, flibbertigibbet, bungalow, hootch, nookie, dead, Oklahoma, barbarism, scrimshaw, cadaver, hedonism, abyssmal, gesticulate, conflagration, chisenbop, telep…
Challenge
Sheila has issued a challenge to write a paragraph containing the following words: level, scotch, flibbertigibbet, bungalow, hootch, nookie, dead, Oklahoma, barbarism, scrimshaw, cadaver, hedonism, abyssmal, gesticulate, conflagration, chisenbop, telep…